"Gilda" with Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford

I went Christmas shopping yesterday and, as usual, the first thing I bought was a gift for me. "Gilda" is probably the most famous of all Rita Hayworth's films. The story is tight, and Glenn Ford is at his best in this gritty tale of expatriated Americans living in South America at the end of the Second World War. Johnny, played by Glenn Ford, is a drifter and gambler. One night, in Buenos Aires, he wins too much money using loaded dice in a crap game, almost getting killed in the bargain. That's when he meets his benefactor, a vaguely European man by the name of Mundson, played by George Macready, who owns a gambling casino. He invites Johnny to come visit him there.

When Johnny goes to the club he once again tries "his own luck" at the tables, only to be roughed up after winning way too much money once more. Using his wits, he manages to land a job in the casino, which he eventually runs for Munsdon. When the boss leaves for business, Johnny is alone with the casino, realizing for the first time, that his life has taken a turn for the better. But not for long.

When Mundson returns he brings his new bride with him, Gilda, played by Rita Hayworth. This is a shock to Johnny for two reasons; first, he and Mundson have agreed that gambling and women don't mix; and secondly, Johnny and Gilda have been former lovers, apparently having split up in some disastrous fashion. Mundson is not fully aware of this, though he suspects that something lies behind the mutual dislike that these two people have for one another. It doesn't take long for the simmering tensions to come to a head, as the domineering Mundson seemingly takes pleasure in watching Johnny and Gilda in their discomfort.

Mundson has more than the casino to worry about. He has become involved in a cartel, one which controls tungsten, a necessary element in the production of steel. When he double crosses the cartel, he is forced to flee, faking his own death to do so. But he has left behind both the casino and Gilda, plus some unfinished business with Johnny. What happens next will change Johnny and Gilda's lives forever.

Deftly directed by Charles Vidor, based on a story by E.A. Ellington, this is one of those old black and white films which are worth staying up late at night to watch on TV. In addition to the great plot, and acting, Ms. Hayworth puts in some credible dancing during the nightclub scenes, particularly while singing "Put the Blame On Mame", the films signature torch song, which was written by Doris Fisher, and lyricist Allan Roberts. The vocals are not Ms. Hayworth, they are actually sung by Anita Kert Ellis, one of Hollywood's celebrated "ghost singers".

Ms. Hayworth performs this song twice in the film; once during the nightclub scene, and then again, after hours, strumming a guitar while sitting with one of the club's other employees. Here is that scene;



And this is the fully orchestrated nightclub version of the song;

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

This is another one of my favorite poems. It is also the first poem I ever recall reading that wasn't written in a four line rhyming sequence, as with "Jack and Jill" and all the other poems that are taught in the 1st and 2nd grades. Actually, this one was first introduced to me in 5th Grade by Mrs. Denslow. I don't know where she is today; I could probably find her, or one of her children, to let them know what an impact this poem had upon me. Simply put, it stretched the boundaries of what I accepted as poetry, to something a little bit different; something which would lead me, later on, to appreciate "free verse" and other poetic styles, as valid. And, since the main purpose of this blog is for my grandchildren to know me more fully when they are older, I decided to include it here.

Poetry is the ability to condense our most complex emotions into the fewest words possible, without losing the message. Strictly structured, Haiku poetry is the champion in that regard. There are also epic poems, such as "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", and Poe's "The Raven", which are a bit more lengthy and have much to say. While I enjoy them, as well as Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, I have always remained enamored of the simple rhyme schemes in poetry by the likes of Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, etc. These poets also capture the same complex emotions as the others, but with one difference; they turn them into song, actually making the words sing. This particular poem always strikes me as the American version of Hartley Coleridge’s “Long Time A Child”, which I have posted here before;

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

"...A Frosty Morning..."

This is what a "frosty morning" looks like in "Dixie". I always wondered why they sang about it down South. That is, until I came to live here. This is the time of year when you wake up to 29 degrees, with the frost showing each time you exhale, and then watch the landscape change to a radiant, springlike 65 degrees, or so. Even when it snows here it only stays long enough to be appreciated, like a Christmas card, and then, poof, it's gone "quicker than an ol' friend from Dogpatch." There aren't too many days like this, so you have to take them as they come. And mornings like this one make that so very easy to do.

"J. Edgar" with Leonardo DiCaprio, Armie Hammer and Naomi Watts

J. Edgar Hoover was a uniquely American enigma. He was, at first, a ruthless fighter against Communism in the days of the Palmer Raids, which took place in 1919 under the direction of Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer and the Department of Justice. Those raids have long been ostracized as being illegal, but they really did save the nation in the early days of the 20th Century. The raids were mostly a reaction to labor related violence by the Unions. This was only 2 years after the Russian Revolution had ushered in Communism, and there was a real threat to America at the time. By September of 1920, explosions would rock Wall Street, when a wagonload of dynamite was set off at lunchtime, killing 38 and injuring scores. This was the environment in which J. Edgar Hoover "cut his teeth". It is also a small part of the history not made very clear to the audience in this film. Simply put, Mr. Eastwood has assumed too much of the average viewer.

The film is compelling, in that it keeps your attention. The direction of the actors is very well done, but the direction of the story; the screenplay; can leave the audience a bit confused as the story jumps back to the 1920's, and the Palmer Raids, and then jumps forward to the Nixon Era. Whole decades between the late 1930's and the 1960's are simply left out, or worse, merely alluded to, without any background information to help the younger viewer, as well as the uninformed, make sense of all the information imparted in the film.

Mr. Hoover's accomplishments in a forensic approach to solving crime cannot be understated. He set up the FBI's first fingerprint database, as well as introducing scientific methods to solving crimes. Ballistics, fibers, wood saw markings; all were carefully categorized under his tenure, and those accomplishments still yield results today. No matter what your politics may be, he was an innovative, though flawed, crime fighter.

Mr. Hoover is ably portrayed by Leonardo DiCaprio as a conflicted man, both socially and morally. His relationship with Clyde Tolson, his assistant for almost his entire career, is not ignored, but neither is it explored for any indications that Mr. Hoover's famous "secret files" were largely due to a sense of "protectionism" of his own sexual preferences. This is a man who even had a file on Eleanor Roosevelt's dalliances with another woman, and informed the President of that fact. To his credit, that information was never made public during his tenure, but what about the files on Martin Luther King? Those he used to tempt Martin Luther King to kill himself on the eve of accepting the Nobel Peace prize. That episode is fully covered in the film.

The Kennedy years are virtually ignored, except for one scene showing J. Edgar calling Robert Kennedy to tell him the news of the assassination. Nothing further is said, or shown, concerning the FBI's complicity in covering up the events in Dallas.

J. Edgar's refusal to believe in organized crime, aka, the Mafia, is also overlooked here. How is it possible to have a film about the FBI without mentioning that it's director insisted, as late as 1964, that the Mafia, or any organized crime existed in America?

The film felt overly long, mostly due to the jumping forward and backward through almost 50 years of our nation's history in a hodge podge fashion. The film, in my opinion, would have been better served with a chronological approach to the story. Most viewers will find it helpful to read a bit about the man before they see the film. As it stands, the audience is left wondering if J. Edgar Hoover was a good man, or a bad man. The simple truth is, that just as we all are, he was a bit of both.

"My Long Trip Home" by Mark Whitaker

It has always been my belief that, like it or not; and for better or worse; we are all the sum total of our parents, and grandparents. Those 2 generations are the ones which define us, socially, as well as morally. In Mark Whitaker's life he was blessed with a rare mixture of race, and values, all of which served him well on the path to becoming the first African-American to attain the lofty position of Editor In Chief of Newsweek, and still later, Executive Vice president of CNN Worldwide.

The book is an amalgam of several stories; the first is that of his great grandfather, Frank Whitaker, and his son, Cleophaus Sylvester Whitaker, Sr., known to all as "Cleo". Frank was a slave until the age of 12, when he went to work on a tenant farm. As a matter of fact, the last name Whitaker is a combination composed of the words "white", for the cotton they picked, and "acre", for the land they picked it on. Frank wanted more for his son, so the elder "C.S." was sent west to get an education at one of the few schools for African-Americans at the time. That was in Oswego, Kansas where he lived with his mother's family while attending school. The difference between life for black people in Kansas, compared to Texas impressed "C.S." to the point of wanting to live somewhere else.

Arriving in Pittsburgh, "C.S." was an undertaker's assistant, and proved so adept at the trade that he became one of Pittsburgh’s first black Funeral Home owners. Eventually, his wife opened a second Funeral Home, which came in handy after they had divorced. Their son, Cleophaus, Jr., was in constant conflict with his father, eventually leaving the family to begin a life of his own. He was headed for the academic world, where he would leave his mark as a major influence in African Studies, eventually chairing the first African Studies Department at Harvard.

The author's mother, Jeanne Alice Theis, came from a totally different world. She was white, and came from a family of missionaries during the days leading up to the Second World War. Her parents, and their whole village in Poland, were involved in smuggling Jews out of the country, as well as hiding them in their homes.

The story of how these two very different people met; she was his teacher at college; and began a life together in 1960's America is astonishing. This account of their backgrounds, as well as the story of their son's journey to success, is well worth reading. It gets complicated, and some of the stories the author tells are not easy to hear, but they are essential to the understanding of ourselves as people, as well as the world in which we live.

In some ways Mark Whitaker's struggle is reminiscent of Barack Obama's life story as he struggles to define, first, who he is, and secondly, who his parents really were, and how their trials and tribulations affected him. In a way, it is a story not unlike our own, as we all search for the deeper meaning behind who we are, and where we are headed.

Chinese Jewish Sign

This sign was sent by an old classmate from Cunningham Juinor High School, Steven Parker. If you're from New York, or any large city in the country that has a sizeable Jewish population, it should make you laugh. I once had a friend whose father was supposedly Kosher. He really loved Chinese food, especially the Pork Fried Rice. How is this possible? It's really very simple; before entering the restaurant he would ask me to be sure and order the Pork Fried Rice. Then, when it was served, he would place his fork over my plate and ask, as innocently as possible, "Do you mind if I try some of your Beef Fried Rice?" I never said no. Besides, I think that everyone at the table knew anyway.

I'm taking the day off, and skipping Black Friday shopping, which is something I never do anyway. I like shopping for the holidays in the middle of the week, at about 3 PM. The stores are always empty, and there's plenty of sales help if you need it.

A Moose From Thanksgiving Past

I was kind of startled yesterday when I saw this image on MSN.com about the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. You might wonder why. And there is a simple answer to that question; I was there, at the parade shown on the left. The one with Bullwinkle the Moose from Rocky and His Friends. It was 1966, so I was 12 years old, according to the date stamped on the border of my own photograph, which is printed below. I actually posted it here a few years ago for the holiday.

My Uncle Irving used to take us from Brooklyn to Manhattan every Christmas for the Christmas Pageant at Radio City Music Hall. This always included a live Camel, and some Sheep. The magic moment always came when the stage lights turned blue, heralding the arrival of the baby Jesus. Whether, or not you are a Christian is not relevant at all, it is simply a magnificent presentation. And I was always amazed at my Uncle's reaction to it, as he was Jewish. He would quietly sob, taken by the emotion of the moment. But, I am straying.

In 1966, for whatever reason, he asked me to meet him in Manhattan, for the Macy's Parade, and so I did. That's when I took this picture of Bullwinkle, which I still have, obviously. Thanksgiving then was always a day for family; in our case it was just the 4 of us and Uncle Irving. It doesn't seem like such a big thing to remember, but I do. And, on holidays, I tend to think of Uncle "I" more than usual. Over the years I have come to realize that, on all occasions in our home, he was the star attraction. He was the one that never yelled at my brother and I, never judged us, never discouraged us. His memory is the one thing I will never relinquish from my childhood. And, when I give thanks today, his memory will be one of the many things I am thankful for.

I started out just wanting to wish everyone a very Happy and Healthy Thanksgiving. But, I tend to wander a bit. If you can't be with family, I hope you find yourself in the company of some good friends. And, with so much going on to divide us - let's take this one day to be thankful for the things we have in common, as well as our common needs.

Have a wonderful, and safe holiday. Make a memory with someone, about someone, or for someone. You may never get to know it, but they will be glad you did.